


Survive.

by tridecaphilia



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Gen, M/M, Survival, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-15 09:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5779897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tridecaphilia/pseuds/tridecaphilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alby had been taking care of him since he’d found him, a half-feral survivor cooped up in the corner of a flat full of headless bodies. It was natural to him by now to look out for Newt, and natural for Newt to let him. But sometimes, Newt felt smaller than he was, smaller even than he’d been back then, and he didn’t like the feeling.</p><p>~</p><p>The Flare virus leaked almost four years ago. Three years ago, the government evacuated every city and attempted to quarantine the survivors. Two years ago, Alby found Newt and they teamed up to secure one of those cities for themselves. Today, Thomas and Minho showed up and asked to join them.</p><p>HIATUS</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Batteries.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I know I was taking January to get caught up, but you know what? I've finished two of the three fics, I have a bit of a buffer ready on Broken Boy, and this universe has taken over my head more than any fic since Don't. I'm halfway through chapter four after like a week of writing and showing no signs of slowing down. So since I have a healthy buffer and plenty of muse, and since Slippery and Halfway House are both about to end, I'm taking advantage and posting now. This will update Thursdays.
> 
> A note about the ship: This fic has been planned as the first in a series, and Newt is still young and figuring out what he wants. Newmas may or may not be the endgame, I'm not telling (although I do know), but I promise you the series will have multiple ships.
> 
> Oh, and yes, in true zombie-survivor-story fashion, the word "zombie" does not appear anywhere in this fic. We call them Cranks.

_ “Hey little bird, ten o’clock.” _

Newt jerked his head around and spotted the Crank Alby was referring to. Not too bad, just a normal Crank. Its left leg was broken, so it half-limped, half-crawled toward him.

If he killed it, it might scream. Some of them did.

“I see it,” he said quietly, slipping around to the back of the convenience store they were trying to secure. He couldn’t risk making a noise. The Crank had probably already smelled him, but it looked to be alone.

Quietly, he climbed up on top of the Dumpster the building had used. His feet barely made a sound as he did; the boots on his feet had been worn soft by hundreds of such excursions.

The roof was a good ten feet above him, even from the top of the Dumpster. Not even he could jump that high. But automatically, his eyes found the cracks where mortar had fallen out from between bricks, the spaces where bricks had started to crumble.

“I’m going up,” he said.

_ “Newt, do not take your shoes off.” _

He rolled his eyes. Alby worried too much. Even if he cut himself, no Crank blood could possibly be on the bricks. Cranks couldn’t climb. Without a word to the man on the other end of the line, he untied his boots and pulled them off his feet, tied the laces together, and draped the boots around his neck. Then he started to climb.

Alby called him a monkey sometimes, and for good reason. He could climb up virtually any surface. He didn’t need a major handhold; his fingertips and toes could support his weight when he needed them to, and he moved fast. Within thirty seconds he’d crested the top of the wall--

And almost jumped right back down.

He ducked his head out of view. “There’s a Crank on the roof,” he whispered.

Alby’s voice was instantly concerned.  _ “Newt. Get your shoes back on and come down. We’ll take the store another day.” _

He actually considered following the directive. Cranks were dangerous, for him at least. Alby was immune to the Flare virus, but they didn’t know about Newt and weren’t prepared to chance it. And if he was bitten, there was an eighty percent chance the virus would infect him if he turned out to be, like most humans, susceptible.

“No,” he said at last. “There’s only one. I can take it.”

Without waiting for an answer, he flung himself onto the roof.

Gravel dug into his bare feet, but he had thick calluses from running around barefoot most of his life. Nothing short of Crank teeth would cut his feet. And on that thought, he unsheathed the machete he wore strapped to his back and charged.

The Crank had seemed aimless, bumping up against the waist-high ledge around the roof over and over; but when Newt charged, it turned with surprising speed. Newt’s eyes went wide and he dove, barely escaping being grabbed as he rolled to the very edge of the roof and came up to standing facing the Crank. His boots dropped from his neck, landing where he’d hit the ground. His eyes flicked to them, then the Crank. One problem at a time.

_ “Newt, get back on the ground, now!” _

“Can’t right now,” he said shortly, and braced himself, feet spread apart, knees bent, machete held out in front of him defensively. “Come on,” he muttered. “Come on.”

The Crank either heard or smelled him. Didn’t really matter which, Newt supposed. The end result was the same: It charged him.

At the last moment Newt stepped aside, swinging his machete in an arc that cut through the thing’s knee to the bone. He yanked his blade out, took a step back, and kicked the Crank in the small of its back. It toppled over the wall to the ground, shrieking at the top of its lungs.

Newt winced. Any Cranks who hadn’t known he was in the area did now.

No one knew why some Cranks retained more humanity than others--more mobility, or the use of their voice. The strangest ones were the ones that didn’t rot after their death, the Flare preserving them so that they seemed at first glance to be sleepwalking. Newt had heard rumors of Cranks who could pretend to be human, back when he’d been working solo.

Those had been hard days.

_ “Newt! Get your butt down here, now!” _

“Can’t,” he said. The earpiece he wore picked up everything he said.

The earpieces were the reason they were here. They were running out of batteries for their walkies, and if they couldn’t contact each other in an emergency they were fucked for sure. The convenience store below them had displays on displays of batteries, but they had to get them  _ now _ or be stuck without communication for however long it took.

“I’m going in,” he announced as he laced his boots back onto his feet, machete safely tucked away again. Without waiting for an answer he ran for the door, gravel crunching quietly under his feet, and opened it.

Inside, the convenience store was dark and broiling hot. Newt and Alby had had power for the two years they’d been working together thanks to one paranoid former tenant of their building who’d had a portable generator. Feeding that with gasoline had been easy; rationing the power had been hard. In other places, though, there was nothing. The government had kept certain utilities deemed necessary running as long as they could, but by now most of those were gone. No more internet, no more news, no more cell phone reception. Not that most people could have charged their phones anyway, but the reception had lasted a good six or seven months after the End of the World.

Newt always thought of it like that, with capital letters. It hadn’t been like in the movies, where one day everything was fine and the next the world was a mass of Cranks. But there had still been a day everyone could point to that the balance had tipped and Cranks had started outnumbering humans.

Thankfully, the convenience store only had one door that would open from the outside. Newt dragged as many carts as he could in front of it and left it for the moment. It would hold until he found something better.

He twisted his bag around so it was on his chest instead of his back, opened it up, and started piling supplies in. Canned food. Evaporated milk. And batteries, batteries,  _ batteries. _

There was a hardware store next door. They’d been planning to take that next, so they could secure the convenience store and come back any time. But it looked like that had been a pipe dream. With Cranks already converging on the convenience store, and more of them possibly inside, the priority was to get out now and worry about securing another supply stop later.

Unfortunately, Cranks had already arrived, pressing up against all the doors, both the automatic ones that hadn’t worked in almost four years and the manual one that only opened from the inside. There were a few of them that had figured out which one might open, but they weren’t getting past the carts. Yet.

Newt ran back to the back of the store, shoving open the Employees Only door, found the stairs he’d come down and ran up them. Nothing stopped him, thankfully. He made it to the roof--and then looked down.

Cranks had surrounded the building. They pressed against every wall and every window, looking for the source of the scream and the scent of fresh meat. All of them were hungry.

Cranks were always hungry.

Newt looked around through the crowd, trying to find an opening he could climb down. There wasn’t one. He could jump down onto the Dumpsters, but then he’d have a very small safe space where they couldn’t reach him, and no way to reach their necks to chop through them.

_ “Newt?” _

“I’m thinking,” he said. He realized that he’d started to lift his thumb to his mouth to chew on the nail, and forced it back down. No chewing his nails when he'd been fighting Cranks a minute ago. If there was even a drop of blood on his thumb, he could get infected. 

_ “Think faster, little bird. I only have so many bullets.” _

“Don't waste any on this,” Newt said. His eyes went up, past the Cranks, until he found the hardware store one building over. There was a good ten feet between the buildings, and he'd have to jump off the ledge. It would be a hard jump. Hard, but not impossible. “I can make it,” he said. 

_ “Newt, what are you--” _

He didn't wait to hear the end of the sentence. He retreated to the edge of the roof, then started running. 

Ten feet. Twenty. He was flying along the ground, feet skimming the surface, gravel crunching under his boots. Five feet from the ledge he jumped, planted his foot on the ledge for half a heartbeat, and flung himself into the air toward the hardware store.

_ “Newt!” _ Alby yelled over the walkie, but too late.

For a second he thought he’d make it. Then he reached the crest of his jump and started to descend. Too fast.

His chest hit the wall of the hardware store, arms flying over the edge. His chin banged into the ledge and stars burst in front of his eyes and he tasted blood. He scrabbled desperately, grabbing the corner of the ledge, bringing his feet up and trying to gain purchase in the cracks of the mortar. No good. No good. He was sliding down, chin scraped raw as it was dragged over rough brick and concrete.

Then he stopped, yanked to a halt as his fingertips latched onto the ledge.

_ “Newt!” _ Alby yelled again.  _ “Newt, talk to me, are you okay?” _

Stupid question. Especially given that he couldn’t really breathe after his collision with the ledge. But he had his hands working now. He wriggled until he had a better grip, then started pulling himself up.

He should have taken his boots off before jumping. Pulling himself up with only his hands was a lot harder than climbing when he had his feet. But he made it, after a few awful minutes. Finally he was safe, and he rolled onto his back on the roof and gasped for air.

_ “Newt, I swear, if you went and died on me--” _

“Love you too, Alby,” he panted.

Dead silence.

_ “I hate you, shank.” _

Newt grinned, rolling to his hands and knees, then climbing to his feet. “How are our friendly neighborhood Cranks?” he asked. “Still seething around the convenience store, or did they follow me?”

_ “Nah, they’re where you left them. Missing you already, no doubt. You have a plan besides giving me a heart attack?” _

He laughed at that. “Don’t worry, Alby. I’m coming home. Me and my fresh supply of batteries.”

There was a pause, then,  _ “I’m gonna kill you, you damn bird.” _

This time, Newt took off his boots. Fuck the risk. He had a better chance of surviving a cut on his foot than he did a fall. If he didn’t die on impact, he’d be eaten alive.

He climbed down the opposite wall from the convenience store, landing quietly on the Dumpster, pausing to lace up his boots again before hopping down to the ground. He walked a good few blocks away before he risked speaking.

“Back on the ground, safe and sound. Meet you at home.”

_ “I will cook you and eat you, little bird,” _ Alby warned.  _ “Don’t you ever scare me like that again.” _

“Relax, Grandmother,” Newt retorted. “I got the batteries we went in for and I didn’t get bit. I’ll be home in ten.”

His hands hurt, his chin hurt, and he seemed to have bitten a chunk out of his cheek when he hit. He didn’t even want to know how many bruises he’d have. But all of that was irrelevant. He was alive, and at the end of the world, that was what mattered.

Ahead of him came into view a six-story apartment building with a heavy gate in the front. In the old days the gate had been electric and mostly for show. Now, with Cranks running around, it was reinforced with a heavy chain and heavier padlock. Obviously, the way in wasn’t through the front door.

Cranks couldn’t climb, and except for a select few they were very bad with their hands. Humans had neither restriction. So Newt pushed open a window of a first-floor flat and climbed in, closing it behind him.

The elevator didn’t work, and it was a long climb to the sixth floor, but he made it up to the flat he and Alby had claimed. He would have flicked on the light, but it was already on, and a very angry Alby was standing in it, arms folded, glaring at Newt.

“You look like shit,” Alby said. “I wouldn’t call this ‘safe and sound.’”

Newt shrugged, dropping his bag to one side, keeping the machete on. “I’m alive,” he said. “Nothing’s broken.” At least he hoped it wasn’t. “And I didn’t get bit.”

“You could still have gotten blood in all those cuts,” Alby said.

“Not unless there’s a breed of Crank that can climb,” he retorted. “I hit a wall two stories off the ground.”

Alby shook his head. “Shirt off,” was all he said. “Hoodie too, and leave the machete. I’ll clean you up.”

Newt rolled his eyes but obeyed. He’d been tiny when he met Alby. The black boy hadn’t believed at first that Newt was fourteen and not ten. Even now that he was a full two inches taller than Alby, he couldn’t blame him for mothering him.

The entire city that Alby and Newt had holed up in was essentially deserted. It had been one of the first cities evacuated when the government took notice of the Flare and the Cranks it produced. The sick had been corralled into quarantine, the well put into refugee camps. By and large this had failed--the Flare had a longer incubation period than the government had banked on--but it had had the benefit of leaving survivors with large deserted areas to turn into livable camps. Some of them had managed better than others. Newt liked to think he and Alby had done better than most.

He sat down on the lid of the toilet, or what was theoretically a toilet. The government had tried to keep plumbing going everywhere so that any scattered survivors could use it, but the apartment’s water was temperamental and they’d learned not to rely on it. What came through usually had to be boiled anyway. Which was probably what Alby was doing out there--boiling water or tapping into their supply of bottled stuff so he could clean Newt’s wounds.

At least, that was what Newt thought until he heard a sound from the hallway.

His head snapped around. He wished he hadn’t taken off the walkie, but they turned it off in their flat to conserve precious batteries. If they ever ran out of the things, they’d have to move, and that would be hell. Newt  _ liked _ this place.

He got to his feet, padding quietly toward the bathroom door. He paused, listening quietly. “Alby?” he whispered.

The boy must have been close. “I heard it,” he said. “Get your things back on. I’m going to check on it.”

Newt obeyed, slipping quietly out of the bathroom and scooping up what he’d dropped. Shirt and hoodie on, then machete. He consoled himself that it probably wasn’t a Crank. He’d never seen one clever enough to work the window, even if it could figure out where it was coming from. And if it did, it would have to have gone up the stairs.

It was possible. At least, if the rumors of human-seeming Cranks were true. It just wasn’t likely.

He kept up a running commentary in his head of why it probably wasn’t a Crank as he took a position right around the corner from the entryway. If anything got past Alby, it would be his job to stop it.

“Don’t shoot!”

The sound was so unexpected that he jumped. That was a voice. A  _ human _ voice. Scared, too. Then again.

“Don’t shoot! We’re human, we’re immune!”

_ We? _


	2. Strangers.

Newt almost jumped out into the hallway, but he held himself still. Alby had a gun, and from the sound of it, the strangers were more worried about him than he was about them. If Newt went out there, he’d just get in the way.

“What are you doing in our building?” Alby asked.

“Our?”

That was a new voice, deeper than the first one, rougher. Newt winced. He could have warned Alby not to say that.

“You’re the strangers,” Alby said shortly. “You do the talking, and then I decide if I like what I hear.”

“We’re human,” said the first voice again. “We’re not infected. We’re immune.”

“Thomas is hurt,” the second one said. “We just need a place to hole up, clean him up, then we’ll be out of your hair.”

“Plenty of places around here to hole up a few days,” Alby said. “Whole damn city was evacuated years back.”

“We know,” said the first voice--Thomas. “We just--we need a secure place. My ankle…”

“Either of you bit?” Alby asked.

Silence.

“You keep quiet I’m taking it as a yes,” Alby warned. Newt could imagine him raising the gun.

“I was,” the second voice said quietly. “But we’re immune, I swear.”

Alby was quiet a minute. Then he called, “Newt! Come on out!”

Newt pushed the door open and emerged.

There were just the two newcomers, and both of them looked to be in rough shape. Newt and Alby had managed to keep clean and healthy since they’d secured the apartment building, but these two had obviously been running a long time. Their clothes were filthy and torn in places, and the bigger Asian one’s muscles stood out stark against his skin, the look of a bodybuilder after starving himself for a competition. The other one, a smaller white boy with heartbreaking pain showing in his eyes, was leaning heavily on his companion.

Alby spoke up. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna give Newt all your weapons as a show of good faith, and then he’s gonna pat you down for more because we’re suspicious types. When that’s done, we’ll bring you back to our apartment and help you clean up. Then we’ll lock you in another apartment for two weeks so we can be sure neither of you are infected.”

The Asian looked like he’d object, but the other one spoke up first. “Fine,” he said. “Minho might have to help me get my weapons, though. He’s sort of the only thing keeping me upright right now.”

“Fine,” Alby said shortly. “Get moving.”

Newt stepped up, careful not to block Alby’s line of sight. If these two turned out to be hostile, the first thing they’d do would be grab Newt to use him as a human shield. So he kept his machete in his right hand and held out his left for the men’s weapons.

Thomas had a pistol with three bullets still loaded and two extra clips of twelve each; a knife strapped to each leg and one at the small of his back; and a baseball bat lashed to his back the way Newt kept his machete. Newt patted him down just in case, but that was it. Minho had a rifle like Alby’s, a sawed-off shotgun in his waistband, and four knives almost as big as Newt’s machete. Like Thomas, he had no more that Newt could find. Newt scooped up all the weapons in his left arm and took them back into the flat while Alby kept his rifle on the strangers.

“So what happened to you?” Minho asked when Newt returned. “You’re pretty banged up.”

Newt didn’t blink. “I missed a jump.”

He wondered what the strangers thought of him. He’d been working with Alby and only Alby for two years, since he was a foot shorter and fifty pounds lighter. Now he was almost six feet tall, an inch taller than Thomas, but skinnier than either of the strangers. A low appetite had come in handy in a world where food was at a premium. His hoodie, a gift from Alby salvaged from a thrift store during their first winter, made him look even smaller than he was, as well as his cargo pants, which were rolled up so he could get to his boots easily to take them off if he needed to climb. All in all, despite his height, he looked much younger than he was, and now he looked banged up as well. If the strangers had come to take the place from them, they wouldn’t have thought he was a threat. It lent some credence to their claims of peaceful intentions that they hadn’t tried to take him hostage.

“All right,” Alby said, gesturing with his rifle. “Come on, in the flat. Newt, see if we’ve got water and start it boiling.”

Newt nodded, ducking back into the flat. Now he did sheathe his machete. If the strangers were going to attack, it wouldn’t be while Thomas was unable to walk and Minho had a bite. Even if he  _ was _ immune, Cranks had all kinds of filth in their mouths and their bites were likely to get infected with one thing or another.

They had water, so he filled up all their pots with it and set them on the stove to boil. When they had water, they hoarded it for the times they didn’t.

Alby, meanwhile, walked the two strangers in and sat them on the couch, where he could keep an eye on them. “Newt?” he called. “Stash their weapons in the bedroom.”

Newt obeyed, glancing at the two. Thomas had stretched his left leg out, closing his eyes tightly. His face was beaded with sweat that could have been from the stress of having a gun held on him or could have been from pain. Minho had rolled his sleeve up to reveal an ugly bite that was already reddened and inflamed as his body fought however many different strains of nasty had been in the Crank’s mouth.

As soon as the weapons were safely stashed on the top shelf of the closet Newt shared with Alby, he returned to the kitchen and grabbed the smallest pot of water, which was already boiling. He poured that water into a big mixing bowl the old tenant had left behind. He refilled the pot, set it back on the stove to boil again, and brought the mixing bowl out to the living room, setting it on the coffee table in front of the strangers. He grabbed a washcloth from the bathroom and a few necessities, then returned.

“Jesus,” Minho said. “Hand sanitizer? That’s gonna hurt like a bitch.”

“Yep,” Alby agreed. “But it works better than Neosporin and there’s more of it, so you’re getting it.”

Minho winced but held out his arm.

At first, Alby had been the one on the front lines, the one fighting through ranks of Cranks to get supplies. Since they were sure he was immune, it seemed like less risk. Back then, Newt had cleaned up a lot of bites, and he’d done it just like this.

He cleaned the wound with a washcloth and the still-hot water, trying not to worry too much about the pain Minho was in. Then he cleaned the wound with rubbing alcohol, then hand sanitizer. Minho, to his credit, didn’t flinch or cry out, just sat still with his teeth gritted together so hard they had to hurt. Finally it was done, and Newt covered the wound with a sterile gauze pad and taped it in place.

Alby, meanwhile, had examined Thomas’s leg. “Just a sprain,” he said. “We’ve got some Tylenol and some ice. We can wrap it up. That’s about it. Just stay off it a few days.”

“Better than I thought,” Thomas said. “I was worried it was broken.”

“Nah,” Alby said. “Bet it hurts like a bitch, though.”

He got ice out of their freezer--they mostly used it for things like this--and wrapped Thomas’s ankle. “You’ll be fine in a week or so,” he said. “But no offense--we’re still gonna lock you up.”

“None taken,” Thomas said. “I know how it looks, us breaking into the city you’ve claimed.”

“Into the apartment building it took us a month to secure?” Alby said dryly. “Yeah, it doesn’t look too good.”

“How  _ did _ you secure it?” Minho said. “You have enough ammo for that?”

Alby glanced at Newt. “Not ammo,” he said quietly.

Newt didn’t say anything.

Alby got to his feet. “Come on. I’ll get you set up.”

Thomas and Minho followed Alby, and Newt retreated to the kitchen to start bottling their water.

They’d emptied the entire apartment building of anything that could be used to hold water as soon as they’d realized it was only on about half the time. Now they had bottles and bottles of water, enough to keep them hydrated and clean for a long time, enough that every month or so they could take a bath.

Alby returned after a few more minutes. “Put them in the quarantine room,” he said. “They’ll wait there.”

Newt nodded. They’d designed the flat across the hall to be a safe room to keep Newt in in case he got bitten, so Alby wouldn’t have to kill him immediately. There was, after all, a one in five chance of avoiding infection from a bite even if you weren’t immune. So they’d removed the deadbolt from inside one of the apartments and attached it to the outside of the apartment across from them, so that Alby could lock Newt up if he had to. Now it would serve just as well to quarantine the newcomers so they could be sure they weren’t infected.

“What happens if they’re already Cranks?” Newt asked. “The stories…”

“Cranks have to eat,” Alby said. “I’m not giving them any meat until we’re sure, just in case. I figure if they don’t start trying to eat us in two weeks they’re probably not going to.”

“Good that,” Newt murmured.

“How are we on water?” Alby asked.

“All the ice trays filled,” Newt said. “All the pots are on the stove waiting to boil. First round’s already in bottles and jugs.”

“Good boy,” Alby said with a grin.

Newt made a face. “Don’t call me that. I’m seventeen and it’s the end of the world. I’m not a boy anymore.”

“Good man,” Alby said without missing a beat.

He shrugged. “Better.”

“Good that,” Alby said. “Now sit your butt down on the couch and let me clean you up.”

Newt went and sat down as ordered, taking off his hoodie and shirt again. His machete and the sheath it went in he put at the end of the couch, ready to be picked up should he need them. He hadn’t needed to use his machete since they’d secured the building, but it was habit to keep it beside him.

Alby came into the room a minute later, a mixing bowl full of just-boiled water in one hand and a bar of soap in the other.

Newt raised his eyebrows at the soap. “We don’t have enough of that to waste,” he said.

“There’s a whole CVS we haven’t touched yet,” Alby said. “We’ll manage. Anyway, you got banged up by a wall, not a Crank. I’m more worried about dirt than bacteria.”

Newt shrugged and tilted his head back for Alby to clean him up. The older boy soaped up the washcloth and started rubbing gently. Newt tried to be as strong as Minho and not wince, but he didn’t quite manage.

“No climbing for a few days,” Alby said. “If you got ripped up any further your windpipe would be showing.”

Newt winced at that image. “Okay,” he said. “Do we have enough supplies not to make a run for a few days?”

“I think we do,” Alby said. “Might be stretched a little thin with the guests across the hall, but this needs to heal up some before I let you go anywhere. Especially with the open wounds, if a Crank even touches that you could get infected. I’m not losing you that easy. If we need a supply run, I’ll go on foot and you can cover me with the rifle.”

“I’m a lousy shot,” Newt muttered.

“You’re good enough not to hit me,” Alby said. “Or we can put Minho on the roof, if he’s not showing symptoms. You can handle him if he turns.”

Newt nodded, not saying anything.

“Hey.” Alby took his chin gently, turning his face to look him in the eye. “You okay?”

Newt nodded again.

“What’s wrong?” Alby pressed.

Newt shrugged. “Nothing.”

“You’re lying.”

He swallowed, looked away. “Why didn’t you tell them? Why there are no Cranks in this building?”

Alby was quiet a minute. Then he said, “They’d look at you differently. I didn’t think you’d want that.”

Put like that, he agreed.

Alby finished cleaning him up and got out some gauze to cover the angry wounds. “Okay,” he said at last. “You’re all set.”

Newt immediately reached for his shirts and hoodie, but Alby grabbed them first. “ _ You’re _ all set,” he said. “ _ These  _ are filthy and ripped. I’ll get them fixed up. You wear something else for now.”

Newt sighed but got to his feet. Alby had been taking care of him since he’d found him, a half-feral survivor cooped up in the corner of a flat full of headless bodies. It was natural to him by now to look out for Newt, and natural for Newt to let him. But sometimes, Newt felt smaller than he was, smaller even than he’d been back then, and he didn’t like the feeling.

“I’ll work on the water,” he said. “Stock us up. Get some for them across the hall.”

“Good that,” Alby said, and retreated to the bedroom to fix up Newt’s clothes. Newt followed, grabbing a T-shirt that he’d worn to death even before the end of the world. He pulled it on over his head, silently mourning his hoodie, and stayed to strip off his boots before leaving the room again.

This part, at least, was routine. He poured the boiled water into mixing bowls to cool off, refilled the pots and put them back on the heat, added a multi-cup mixing cup to the microwave to boil some more. It could be a week or more before they got running water back, so he had to work fast to get as much as he could saved.

There were places in the flat where the carpet was still stiff and grating under his bare feet, where blood had soaked into the carpet long ago. Any bacteria in that blood had long since died, but walking over it was a constant reminder that once upon a time people had lived here.

“I’m going to take some water across the hall,” he called to Alby, taking a jug from the fridge.

“Don’t stay too long!” Alby called back.

Newt waved, although Alby couldn’t see him, and headed across the hall.

When they’d installed the deadbolt, he’d been short enough that he had to stand on tiptoes to reach it. Now he turned it easily and went in.

“Brought you water,” he called.

“Thanks.” That was Minho, emerging from the bedroom. He was shirtless. Newt stared for a minute before he remembered himself and turned away to the kitchen to set the jug on the counter.

“Bet Alby’s worried sick, letting you come over here,” Minho said, folding his arms and leaning against the wall. It was very distracting. “Worried we’ll do something.”

“Alby knows I can take care of myself,” Newt replied.

He almost told Minho right then and there, almost admitted it--but he stopped himself. They’d look at him different. And he wasn’t sure he wanted the first people he’d met in years to look at him like that.

“I’ll be back in a few hours with dinner,” he said instead, and headed for the door.

“Newt.”

He stopped, looking over his shoulder at the Asian boy.

“Thanks.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. “I’ll be back,” he stammered after a minute, and fled.


	3. Quarantine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So guess who totally forgot that it was Thursday last week? By the time I remembered to update this it was Tuesday, so I waited until Thursday and then forgot yesterday too. Sorry about that, but don't worry that I've given up on this. I'm halfway done with chapter seven and very excited about the end.

This time, Alby was the one crouched in front of Minho, and Newt was the one holding the gun.

“You know I’m not going to try anything,” Minho said, looking between them as he held out his arm. “Even if I wanted to. You locked up this whole city, I’m not stupid enough to think I could  take you both in a fight.”

Newt didn’t answer. He had the gun pointed steadily at Minho, but his finger off the trigger. Thomas sat beside Minho, hands on his knees and eyes unwaveringly on Newt. There was something about his gaze that unnerved Newt, but he refused to give in and look away. He’d learned long ago that that was a sign of weakness.

“So what kind of names are Newt and Alby?” Minho asked, trying to make conversation.

“The kind that are perfectly good at the end of the world, shank,” Alby shot back, removing the bandages from Minho’s arm.

Newt was supposed to be watching them both, but he couldn’t help looking. In the early stages of infection, the veins around the wound turned black and swollen. As far as he was aware, even the Cranks who ended up looking human still had those awful veins.

Minho’s wound, though, looked normal, if swollen.

Alby muttered a curse. “Probably infected,” he said. “You feel feverish?”

“No,” Thomas replied. “I checked this morning.” His eyes were still on Newt.

Alby put his wrist to Minho’s forehead anyway. “Don’t feel anything,” he said. “Hopefully your system will kick this on its own, but just in case…” He opened the first-aid kit and reluctantly took out a half-empty tube of Neosporin.

“Thought Purell worked better,” Minho said.

“Shut up,” Alby warned. “I’m putting that on too. We save this for emergencies.”

“Or when your boy toy gets hurt, right?” Minho asked.

It was a good thing Newt didn’t have his finger on the trigger, because he flinched at the words. “We’re not like that,” he said automatically.

“I don’t have to give you this now either,” Alby said at the same time. “You trespassed in our home, and I’ve graciously agreed to put you up and treat you. I don’t owe you shit.”

Thomas cut in. “He’s just scared you’ll have to cut his arm off,” he said. “I’ve been running with this guy for two years, trust me. He runs his mouth when he’s freaked.”

Minho didn’t look in any mood to apologize, so Alby was stuck with that. After a minute where he looked like he’d put the Neosporin back, he seemed to accept the non-apology, and squeezed some of the cream onto the wound and started rubbing it in.

“Nine days left,” he said. “You’ll have to wait them out in here. You got enough water for today?”

Their water, by some miracle, hadn’t shut off. Newt had raided every flat in the floors above and below them for more containers and filled them all up, boiled or frozen everything. It was actually starting to worry him. What if the government had recovered, had gotten people to consistently work the water treatment centers? What would happen if people tried to come back, wanted to take over the city he and Alby had so painstakingly secured?

“We should,” Minho said. “Running low on food, though.”

“We’ll bring over some more tonight,” Alby said. “Newt’s cooking.”

Surprise flickered over Minho’s face. “You can cook?”

Newt shrugged. “I used to help my mum,” he said, forcing his voice to remain neutral, not reveal any of the pain the words reminded him of. “It’s harder with the shit that’s left in the world, but I manage.”

“He says that like he doesn’t have a rooftop garden,” Alby said. “Four of them, one along every wall.”

“Jesus,” Minho said. “You two made out pretty good at the end of the world, huh?”

Newt nodded absently. Alby got to his feet. “We’ll be back,” he promised. “Make sure you keep that wound covered. Wash it out if you have to take the bandage off.”

“I will,” Minho said.

Thomas’s eyes were still on Newt.

~

The gardens had been his mother’s.

Newt had never told Alby that part. That his mother had worked out a deal with the owners of the apartment building that she would grow vegetables and herbs on top of the building and would pay part of their rent by giving them some. His mother had been a bit of a hippie, all about eating organic and local and hugely anti-vaccine and anti-pharmaceuticals. Maybe if she hadn’t been, she wouldn’t have succumbed to the Flare so quickly. But he tried not to think about that. Most days, he even succeeded.

Today, he ran through the normal routine of weeding and watering everything, checking the boxes along the walls and the greenhouse Alby had built him out of metal stakes and clear plastic tarps. There were tomatoes and cucumbers, which would make a good healthy side that would help all four of them fill up. Minho and Thomas probably hadn’t had anything fresh in all the time they’d been running, probably were on the verge of scurvy. Any vegetables or fruits would be better than none.

Downstairs in the flat, he found Alby sharpening his backup knives. The older boy glanced up, then down.

“That machete’s hit a lot of bone recently,” was all he said.

Newt nodded and retreated to the kitchen, fishing through their cupboards for food.

The flats on either side of them acted as pantries. Cooler on cooler filled them, holding as much perishable food as they’d managed to preserve. They’d done well enough at it that sometimes they could simply heat up a frozen meal for dinner, but tonight they had to feed four.

“Thomas keeps looking at me,” he said aloud when he realized Alby was in the doorway behind him.

“He just can’t believe how pretty you are,” Alby teased.

Newt shrugged, uncomfortable, and started getting out cans and boxes.

“Generator’s low on gas,” Alby said. “We’ll have to go get more tomorrow.”

Newt nodded, putting a pot of water on the stove.

“Pasta?” Alby asked.

“We have enough of it,” Newt said. “There’s three grocery stores we never even hit. We could survive on pasta for a year.”

Alby smiled crookedly. “You’re the cook. I won’t complain.”

Newt actually smiled, and Alby grinned triumphantly. In all the time they’d known each other, Newt had almost never smiled for real. Alby could have counted the times on his fingers and had some left over. The man always seemed to consider it a triumph when he got a smile from the blond.

Alby ruffled his hair. “Give me your machete,” he said. “I’m gonna clean and sharpen it.”

“Take it,” Newt said, turning so his front was to Alby. The man unfastened the sheath that looped around Newt’s torso and carried it and the blade to the other room.

Pasta was one thing, but Newt refused to serve jarred sauce when there were plenty of fresh tomatoes. He set them in another pot to stew and used one of their designated kitchen knives to chop the cucumbers. He dressed them in vinegar--oil was hard to come by after four years, but vinegar never went bad--and added dried berries and salt. Finally, with nothing to do but wait for the water to boil, he asked what was on his mind.

“Does it bother you that we’ve had water for a week?”

Alby poked his head around the corner, a freshly cleaned and sharpened machete in his hand. “No. Why would it?”

Newt frowned at the pot of near-boiling water. “What happens if the world is recovering?” he asked. “What happens if people come here and try to take this place from us?”

“They’ll have to get past the Cranks,” Alby said. “Anyway, if people come out here, it means we actually have backup.”

Newt shrugged, grabbing the box of pasta shells and dumping it into the water.

Very quietly, Alby said, “The world surviving isn’t a bad thing, Newt.”

Newt didn’t answer.

~

“Jesus Christ,” Thomas moaned around a mouthful of pasta and chunky tomato sauce. “You  _ made _ this?”

Newt nodded, settling cross-legged on the table in front of Minho. He’d already eaten with Alby, and come across the hall. A pistol rested in the crook of one knee, ready to be grabbed and fired if Thomas or Minho turned violent. At this point, he didn’t think they would, but Alby was still suspicious. Ironic, for the person who’d tried to convince Newt that other people’s survival wouldn’t ruin the corner of the world they’d carved out for himself.

“This is the best thing I’ve tasted in two years,” Thomas said, scooping up another bite of pasta and shoving it in his mouth.

“No meat, though,” Minho said. “We’ve been living on meat and not many veggies.”

“Where were you before then?” Newt asked.

Thomas blinked. “What?”

“The Flare got leaked almost four years ago,” Newt said. “Cities got evacuated and people got quarantined three and a half years ago. Where were you for a year and a half?”

Thomas swallowed his mouthful. “You don’t miss much, do you?”

He shook his head, a quick little jerk of his neck.

Thomas leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “We were in a place called Paradise.”

Newt blinked. “What?”

“Paradise,” Minho said. “It was--well, it was a group of survivors. No government intervention or anything. Just survivors banding together and working together. They’ve got a whole city cordoned off the way you guys did this block.”

Newt had always had what therapists called a “blunted affect,” which came in handy now. He didn’t want anyone to know that the news of another successfully-protected city made him uneasy rather than excited. “Why’d you leave?”

Thomas opened his mouth, but Minho cut him off. “Falling out with one of the leaders,” he said. “Marcus--one of the biggest guys. He and I have different opinions of who should and shouldn’t be allowed in.”

Newt frowned. “He made you leave?”

“He did better,” Thomas said. “He made everyone else want us gone, until we left on our own.”

“Two years ago,” Minho said. “We’ve been trying to find more survivors to stay with ever since.”

Newt frowned, trying to reconcile that with the reality of the world. “Why not head for quarantine?”

“We did,” Minho said. “Found three of the sites. All of them were madhouses. They can’t detect the Flare for a good three days after the person gets infected, so all these people were infecting other people without knowing it.”

“It spreads through more than just bites,” Thomas added. “Any contact between bodily fluids can do it. So a wife would get infected, her husband kisses her and gets infected, their kids drink from the same glasses and get infected… By the time it’s detectable in the original infectee, five other people are running around infecting people.”

“There’s basically no way to keep the virus out,” Minho said. “Even proving you’re immune doesn’t do you much good, because then people just want you dead. One city…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “The world’s a hellhole,” he said instead. “And it hasn’t gotten any better. Finding a small group to team up with seemed like our best bet, but most of those are worse than you for paranoia.”

Newt snorted. He couldn’t imagine anyone worse than Alby for paranoia.

“Swear to God,” Minho said, raising a hand. “The last guys we met, they’d be holding the gun on us right now, not letting it sit on the table.”

Newt glanced down at it. Then without a word he scooped it up. In the time it took to blink it was aimed at Minho, his finger hovering half a millimeter from the trigger.

Minho raised his eyebrows and hands. “Okay, I stand corrected. You are  _ exactly  _ as paranoid as them.”

Newt smiled thinly and put the gun back in the crook of his knee. “Not paranoid,” he said. “Just very good at what I do.”

“And what is it that you do?” Thomas asked.

Newt looked down at the gun, twisting it between his fingers. “Survive.”

~

Minho’s bite was worse the next day.

“Not the Flare,” Alby mused, turning his arm over in his hands, running his fingers along the swollen flesh around  the bite. “Just normal infection. I wouldn’t be too worried.”

“No offense,” Thomas said. “But I am.”

Minho jerked a head toward the brunet. “I’m with him.”

Newt was perched once again, this time on the dresser, rifle held loosely in his hands. His eyes were mostly on Minho, but he kept glancing at Thomas. It was starting to get troubling, how fixated Thomas seemed to be on him. And he was starting to get the feeling he’d seen him before, but for the life of him he couldn’t place where.

“He needs medicine,” Thomas said. “Real medicine. If you let me out--”

“I ain’t keeping you here,” Alby said flatly. “But that leg is.”

Thomas frowned at his ankle. It was still bound, but the swelling had gone down and he could limp across the room without the aid of a cane now. Still, he couldn’t outrun the bunch of Cranks that would attack them if they left.

Newt spoke up. “There was a doctor living here.”

“Yeah?” Minho said sardonically. “Too bad he’s not here now.”

“No,” Newt said. “But his books are.”

Alby looked over at Newt. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking I could get the books,” he said. “Find out the names of some antibiotics, see if anyone in this building had any of them. If not…”

He looked up at Alby. His partner slash overprotective mother figure wasn’t going to like what he said next. “If there aren’t any here, I can get some.”

“No,” Alby said instantly.

“I’ll go with you,” Thomas said at the same time.

“ _ No, _ ” Alby repeated.

“So will I,” Minho said. “It’s my life on the line.”

“Goddammit, no!” Alby was standing now, pointing fiercely at Newt. “You’re not going out again, not for this.”

“I’ve gone out for less,” Newt shot back. “A week ago I jumped across a roof for  _ batteries. _ ”

“Seriously?” Minho asked. “You sent him out for batteries but you won’t even let  _ me _ go for antibiotics that could save my life?”

“Look,” Alby snapped. “We’ve got the whole building secure, Newt’s banged up, Thomas can barely walk, and you’re in quarantine until we’re sure you’re not infected. No one’s going  _ anywhere. _ ”

“You can’t stop me,” Minho said. “It’s my life on the line, not yours. And not Newt’s.”

“Newt’s the only one in this room who doesn’t claim to be immune,” Alby said. “And he’s got a whole patch of skin missing on his neck and chest. He’s not going anywhere.”

“You couldn’t stop me if I tried.”

All three men looked at Newt, startled to hear him inject himself into the conversation--and against Alby. Newt’s face was as expressionless as it normally was. He kept his eyes on Alby.

“You know you couldn’t,” he said. “If I wanted to leave I’d just open a window and climb down. I wouldn’t have you covering me. I’d probably get killed. But I could do it.”

Alby stared at him. “I could keep you here,” he said.

“How?” Newt asked. “Nail the windows shut? I’d break them and climb out. Tie me up? What happens if a Crank gets in?”

His hands were still on the rifle, still cradling it in a way that let the others know that he could have it up, aimed, and fired before they could get off the couch. Not that either of them looked eager to try it.

“Alby,” Newt said quietly. “Odds are, somewhere in this building there’s a bottle of antibiotics. If there is, then we give them to Minho and everything’s fine. If there’s not, I’m taking Minho and going out and getting them, and you can either back me up or get out of my way.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr at raemakesthings, where I ramble about my fics and post my drawings.
> 
> I think it's fair to tell you all, I have up to chapter seven of this fic written (and have since I posted chapter three), but I've lost my vision for where it's going. I'm hoping reading The Fever Code gives me back that vision, but until such time as it happens, this fic is on indefinite hiatus.


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